That can’t be right? Can it? I start to correct them, but Owen interrupts. “I like to keep my personal hydration private, thank you very much. And I’d very much like to take my fiancé home now. Thanks for… being here… I guess.”
He searches the bar top for his nearly empty drink glass, grabs it haphazardly and thrusts it into the air. “Cheers!”
The bar echoes, heads tilt back, and then… a chant begins.
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
Owen’s face is so close to mine, I smell the drink on his breath. It’s minty and sweet. I wish I didn’t want further information.
A memory flashes through my brain. The first and only time I cut Owen’s hair, the night before he left for school, and I stayed behind in Honey Hill.
Me, standing between his legs, focused on my work but all too aware of the looming distance between us. Terrified of what it would mean to be apart for the first time since we’d claimed one another as friends freshman year. One minute I had my hands in his hair, and in the next, I’d let them rest, framing his precious face. My friend. My person. The only person I could fully count on.
In the next breath, his hands were suddenly on my waist, thumbs running circles on my skin. Leaning closer. Nose-to-nose and a hairsbreadth away from a decision with no return. When I’ve thought about it—frequently—over the years, I realize he gave me every chance to step back. Full control and autonomy. Owen would never force me into anything he didn’t think I already wanted.
No, he simply whispered, “Brooke,” and, then and there, with my name still fresh on his lips, selfish and foolish as it was, I had to know what it would be like. Even just once.
I brought his face to mine and kissed him like it’d be our last. It had to be. He was leaving the next day, and I was grownenough to recognize that nothing would ever be the same. So I took and took and took, for what felt like an eternity but was equally far too little time. Memorizing the only chance I’d get. And then I stepped back, knowing it—we—could never go any further.
I’ve stood by that decision, trying to move on. To date other people. Hoping and equally dreading Owen doing the same. All in an attempt at the impossible—to forget what it felt like to be held by my best friend for a moment that’s so deeply ingrained in my bones that if you were to cut me open, you’d see it tattooed permanently there.
Right now, though, as Owen inches closer and closer to me, again, the memory of his lips on mine feels more akin to craving your favorite ice cream after too long going without. I know what it would be like to give in to this crowd—and, yes, my own fantasies—but I also know how high the stakes are. How close I might be to losing him forever.
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
The chanting beats in steady rhythm with my heart. Owen’s eyes narrow. Exactly like they do before he throws a pitch. He runs his hand in a circle over his belly, and then, with no preamble, no warning or hint of his intentions aside from the small inhale of breath only I can hear, he takes my chin in his hands and brings his lips down on mine.
6
BELONG TOGETHER
MARK AMBOR
BROOKE
The second time Owen and I kiss leaves our first in the dust.
I don’t know how I’ve managed to suppress how very good we are at this particular activity, but here I am, taking mental notes so that I nevereverforget again. When his lips meet mine, it takes little to encourage them just slightly open. Muscle memory is a magical force, after all, and I’ve abandoned all thoughts of our townspeople’s mild voyeurism, because at the moment, I’m fully committed to what we’re selling here.
Rather than the electrifying,get-this-out-of-our-systemskiss of our youth, this kiss is sweet and unassuming. To the world it must look like we do this all the time. But I’m here to testify, Owen’s giving me a profoundly new experience.
His movements are slow and soft, as if he’s dealing with a shifty, wild animal he’s trying desperately and reverently to tame. I am certainly not running away. If this is the last kiss of my life—because let’s be honest, there’s no moving on now—I’m going to soak up every tantalizing second.
It’s actually Owen who pulls away.
Let me tell you, I only whimper a little. I am, after all, a woman in a newly fake-engaged relationship, ready to be ravaged by her fiancé. But Gretchen… y’all… she throws an all out temper tantrum. That little belly monster is not pleased with the disruption. And who can blame her, right?
All at once, like I’m coming out of deep water, the sights, smells, and sounds of the bar come back into focus. Someone is on the stage. A spattering of conversations are going on around us, and apparently, all those eager to see our mouth-mingling have gotten what they came for as the crowd is dissipating.
Owen links our pinkies and clears his throat. When he speaks, it’s a bit softer than normal but decided. “Come on. Let’s go home.”
I manage a slow-mo headnod and let him lead me from the bar into the warm night air. Every step from Tots, Collaborate & Listen to the car is mechanical. I’m in a recovery fog. Hit with a devastating, spring storm—uniquely named Owen’s Perfect Mouth—and left to deal with the aftermath.
He opens the driver’s side door, holding it while I climb in and manage to put my seat belt on.
“You still good to drive, Brookey? You look a little—”
“Kissed?” I simply cannot look at him right now, but I can’t let what just happened hang out in this car unsaid for the six minute drive to Owen’s house.
